The wreath is in the final draft stage.
The corks are all applied and reinforced and, save for a finishing cork or two once everything else is fully attached and I see it with fresh eyes in a few days, I believe I am done with the hot glue.
Now I need to affix the faux grapes and leaves and any other vine tendrils or baubles.
But for now, finito.

Here's the basic layout of what the wreath will look like once all i's are dotted and t's crossed:

It's like I can't see straight.
Like I've stubbed my toe.
Or haven't eaten in days.
Acute awareness.
Oh, to be human.
Why won't it just go away.
Go away.

I needs a man.
A good dick.
Needs a man.

And keep the Ouzo away, it just makes me want to saddle up to the nearest interesting bloke.

Am I ever glad for silly entertainment and eye candy.

But not really.

:D


*
This week has seen me driving endlessly in circles around LA County, Orange County, San Bernardino County
to Long Beach
to Burbank
to Newport Beach
to Azusa
to Irvine
to Pelican Hill
to Devil Canyon
and back again

My car is in need of a new tire and a brake line flush and a smog check
Here's hoping one of the jobs for which I drive an hour each way can afford to pay me enough to keep my car on the road.

from Pete Dexter: Train, chapter 2

"Train preferred movies where nobody sang, but sitting in the theater kept him out of the way until his mother's new friend went to sleep. The friend's name was Mayflower. He had some beers last Sunday, dropped his arm across Train's shoulders while they was all talking, his hand at the nape of his neck, and then squeezed Train and tried to pull him closer, tried to controlled his head. Train tightened himself and held away, and they fought secretly in front of his mother over that two or three inches of space, with polite looks on their faces, Mayflower squeezing so hard Train felt the shaking in his arm.

"And then the squeezing stopped and the hand slid off, and he and Mayflower looked at each other with a cold understanding of what was possible between them. And his mother was sitting there the whole time, seeing what was happening, hoping that everything she knew about men and their territory didn't apply in her own home. Train could feel the weight of Mayflower's hand a long time after it left, and there was a numbness down the back of his head."

I wish I had the wherewithal at the time to have struggled sooner, or to have stopped it earlier, to have fought faster.
I see my cleavage now and see his hand. Sliding down. "Mhmm"

I need to be touched by friendlier forces.

Damn daddy issues.

On another front, I cannot stop myself from toying with a friend. I'm fairly certain he's got a thing for me.
He's such an easy mark. Basically begging to be pussy whipped.
A mouse for this puss to bat around until I'm bored with it.
I'm so messed up.
I look at my closet and wonder ...which dress would catch his eye more? Should I wear a baby-doll underneath? That'd be a sure-fire way to keep the naughty possibilities on my mind, and maybe make things more fun should the opportunity arise. What could I get away with without being under suspicion?
Why torture myself? Why tease him?
I think I need the attention. Need the affirmation of attraction from another source.
I don't want him, but I want him to want me.
Such a girl move.
I'd fuck my friend's brother if he were on hand. But not my friend. Well... maybe not. I think everything would need to be perfectly perfect and he'd have to play his cards at the just right moment for even the most innocent of accidental caresses to take place.
I'm trouble.
I've told him as much. Told him I'm the kind of girl his momma warned him about. Selfish. Uncaring. A tease. I think it piqued his attention further.
Flirting and double entendre... just too easy. Easy when you don't care about the consequences.
Ugh. Someone hand me a better conscience.

Returned the black f* me boots.
Keeping the pseudo-Victorian, caramel ankle booties.
Now, say hello to a knee-high in an odd hard-to-pin-down, not grey, not brown, basically mushroom or Weimaraner or faded teak color that, and here's the real winner, doesn't clash with one of my favorite dresses.



I know the colors don't match, but the point is that they don't clash. Yay.
The teal's not so hard to coordinate, but the faded olive that looks grey next to the teal but seems a horrible puke-ish green next to real grey? Been impossible.
But o, finally! something that I can wear not only with this dress but with so many of my off-color pieces, something that's not the go-to black. It's the first time in years I've had this dress where I feel comfortable wearing it.

And yay, the boot comes to my knee, like for real, and can be folded cleanly down anywhere on the way to a good 7 inches, or be scrunched and slouched and get funky.

I know it's not a good time to be spending frivolously.
But I worked a few unexpected tutoring hours, and I've been wanting boots for so long, and this is the first season designers have had mass fun with colors and materials and heights I can fit and wear, and the two coordinate-with-nearly-anything brownish ones were less than the black... so, :D
Horray for size 11.

I was standing in the garage, moving baskets and making space for someone to see the china cabinet when the prof called this morning.
I stared at the phone for a second.
Do I? Don't I?

He said to ignore the message from yesterday.
I played dumb. "What message?" I was giving him an out.
He didn't take it.

He explained his first call fully, nearly repeating the message word-for-word. But was calling today to recant.
"You said what you said. So it seems silly now."

I was right in my interpretation of the brief message.
I was very glad to hear that he was thinking more clearly this morning.
He sorta explained a little more of what he was thinking/feeling. I was glad to see him trying to reach out and be honest and have depth of emotion and be willing to put it out there, even if he was vague.

"It sounds like you're trying to escape."
"But you can't be that escape."
"No, I can't."

My brother walked in. He was there to help me move an awkward box.
I spoke to my brother briefly, then to the prof, "I'm sorry, I have to go."

It's a strange thing, but I feel strongly that if I were to be harsh or merciless, he would not make attempts to talk to his wife, they would not reconcile, and he would live the rest of his life alone.
"I do wish you well," I told him. "But I cannot be your mistress."

My posts have been an interesting mix lately.
Some random attire concerns speckled with abuse and desire.

Most of my clothes don't fit quite right anymore. I think I may have kept off the weight I lost this Spring.
The more I am not working, the more I miss feeling like an adult.
I've been wanting to wear items that are a step away from college. Clothes that have a certain understated elegance.
On Saturday, I deeply wished I'd packed less cute clothes.

Beauty holds an interesting hold on the world.
The superficial kind is lacking in depth, but makes the first impression and affects the way people treat one another.
Is it in human nature to seek it? Or is there some function or purpose beyond?
The term 'beautiful' relays concepts and praise and seemingly evokes the ethereal.

I don't know where I'm going with these thoughts.
Many times in the past I've said I thought little of being called beautiful. I think that is still true in many ways. Sans surgery and other chemical alterations, I cannot control the color of my eyes, or the shape of my mouth, or the texture of my skin, or the size of my breasts, or the feel of my hair. Genetic combinations were no choice of mine.

Oh hell, my mind's too distracted right now.

I got a call from the prof.
He wants to pop by on his way to San Diego.
Fuck.

Earlier this year, I starting telling people things I remember my father doing to me.
I'd never really told anyone before.
At least not the visceral details.
Sure I said my father was an abusive drug addict and alcoholic.
That was usually enough explanation.
But, over the past few months, I have been looking at some of my scars.
And remembering.

The one I'll tell you about today is the delicate little square on the inside of my right forearm just below my wrist.
It's hardly noticeable.
Faded over the years to the barest of shimmers and discolorations.

I think I was about 4.
And it was time to teach me a lesson.
The lecture of the day was about fire,
and the stove,
and the danger of trying to reach for things on it.

I do not know if I was actually trying to get at a pot.
Or if the learning session was unprompted.

I remember him holding my wrist.
He told me it's dangerous. To stay away.
I don't remember the exact words.
Did he use baby talk?
"Ouch. This makes ouchies."

I do not have the vivid memory of my hand being pulled to the stove top.
Though I can imagine it.
I do not remember what it felt like.
Though I can imagine it.

I do have a picture of his hand holding mine over the tiny blue flame.
Though it's only a moment. A very solid, in-focus image.
I know it's real because the angle is funny. My line of sight was very different then.
We had a different stove.
It wasn't where our stove is now.

And I can almost feel the pressure at my wrist.
A strong thumb.
My hand hidden in his palm.

There is space between my hand and the scar.
Enough for a couple fingers.
But back then, only one.

The culmination of the advice I've been given is:
1) don't be alone with the husband again
2) don't get involved in the problems of their marriage

Beyond that, I'm not certain what to do, if anything

*
Moving on.

I'm not keeping the sexed-up shoes.
Ultimately, they're not practical enough. The comfort of wearing and walking around is not great enough. The fit is not good enough. Plus their styling is not versatile enough. And they were definitely not cheap enough to keep just for kicks.

So, even more fun pseudo-Victorian ankle boots in awesome caramel it is.



And since they've been made to have the appearance of spats, maybe I can simply add some over top, or gaiters, or even old-fashioned leggings (which are not of the retro 80s variety) to give me the tall boot warmth and look... I hope I can find some sturdy coordinating material. That does seem the best way to go.
Maybe do a few... one à la steam punk, one for a simple brown boot, one for a festive night.
Versatility in apperance without needing to buy ten million and one different seasonal or momentarily lovely/trendy boots: priceless.

The moment we were alone, he apologized. Formally.
I told him I forgave him.
Because I do.
And he needed to hear it.
Though I still do not want to be alone with him again. Possibly ever.

Played a song for me in the car ride to the train station.
Byrds' "Chestnut Mare"
He said it reminded him of his wife
But I knew it was for me
Which he affirmed
under his breath
in the bustle of getting out of the car
And I was creeped in a way I didn't expect.

He's got
Or had
Some serious romantic notions
Riding off into the sunset shit.

I told him I didn't think of him that way.
Reiterated that he's put me in a bad position.
And he should talk to his wife if he isn't happy with the marriage.

On the good-bye, he petted my head again, and lingered.

I am reluctant now to visit again.

I bought a beer on the train.
At first, I thought, maybe some nuts or a snack, but, no; the tall dark bottles were calling to me.
A sweetly strong bitingly bitter Arrogant Bastard Ale.
Big fat more than a pint bottle.
"Would you like a glass?"
I laugh. "Nope."

So there I was, 2 hours or so on a train, nursing this monster bottle, reading a book entitled Train
I was in the restroom on the train just before my stop and when I came out, lo! the train wasn't moving, but I still thought it was. Haha, I'm such a lightweight.

Now I'm off to rectify my reluctance and ultimate refusal some minutes ago to help my brother move the last bit o' crap from his place. Much earlier today, he asked me to help tomorrow, but they went off tonight, and I was much too sleepy and heavy from the ale.

It's strange that things have not felt strange around the offending professor. Yes anxious about what could happen, but not anxious in his presence.
I do not feel threatened.
I crack jokes.
Though I'm hesitant to make eye contact.
And do not want to be alone again with him. You know, precaution.

I'm leaving earlier than I originally planned.
But it's a-okay.

I'm nervous.
Intensely anxious.

I don't know how.
I can't.
I'm stuck.

What...

Shit on a stick.

My friend sits next to me.
She's trying to figure out how to use her netbook.
My mom sits in the kitchen with the professor and the boyfriend and a couple other of their friends.
I'm hiding out at the moment.
Trying to settle.
Recuperating, in a way.

Trying to recover

I thought I would be able to just ignore it.
Pretend less happened.
But now I'm not so sure.
I think the shock has worn off and now I'm feeling ill.
It might be the smörgåsbord
But I'm tense.

I spent the day away in Solvang. Procrastinated as much as possible coming back. Encouraged my mom to come back and hang
Another person to buffer.

I feel weird.
This is not good.

I want to escape.
On the drive to Solvang, I thought about blabbing or whining in a most juvenile way. "I wanna go home."

Yep.
I still don't know what to do.
How do I behave around him?
Do I just forget it ever happened like he suggested? That's what I really want. To think of it like a distant thing, something that happened ages ago that is no longer of consequence, that I basically forgot ever occurred.
Do I tell my friend? What will that accomplish? She has told me before that he is not interested in sex. She believes he doesn't like physical contact. She is under the impression he's, I dunno, asexual or a eunuch or something. And I fully believed her, which, in part, explains the total shock.
But he's not asexual or a eunuch or something.
I suspect he's sensitive, and their relationship is so complicated that perhaps he thinks he doesn't have a shot with her, and will never again.
Will knowing make things worse, or better?
The last thing I want is to be the last straw.

But one good thing has come of this surprise attempted seduction, I am reassured in my sense of men (however odd that may seem), and of right and wrong, and strangely in myself.
I know now I am not just a walking hormone willing to accept any and every crumb of affection that may be brushed my way.
I fully know now that I have dignity and self-respect.
I am well aware that I have clear and distinct boundaries of what is romantic contact and what is platonic.
And I know yesterday I was wined and dined in the classic sense, but I didn't realize it at the time.
I see now more than ever that I can be quite daft.

But I also wonder about how to not attract.
I didn't mean to send any signals of any romantic kind to the professor.
It was just me. Being myself. Casual and loungey. Loafing and puttering around.

There's been one other occasion that has surprised me almost as equally.
I was hanging with Jess at one of her friend's for a summer BBQ. He's a decade older than I. This friend just got married to an older woman with children. One of the daughters had a fiancé, and we were all chatting around the dinner table.
Well, I sometimes have clothing problems where my bra strap or my shirt sleeves shift or slip off and I feel it on my arm and always automatically put it back on my shoulder. To me, that's a practical thing. Something goes out of place, you put it back. Simple, easy, yeah?
I had no idea the fiancé thought I was flirting with him with my thumb push the straps back into place motion. Jess told me after we left that the daughter told her I had made him very uncomfortable, and that's why they left the table so early. I was dumbfounded.
Say what?
I don't remember even saying hello to the guy, or making eye-contact, and he thought I was laying on some heavy moves and felt the need to leave entirely?
At the time, I thought, 'how weird.'
I mean, serious?

However, now, while I still hold the 'how odd' sentiment, perhaps there's something to it?
Is there seduction in a bra strap? Is there seduction in a summery blouse?
For half a moment, I think 'yes.' I would say perhaps the wearer of such things should be more careful, but honestly, what poppycock. Taking that train of thought to the extreme nearly justifies rapists claims that s/he wanted it because s/he was dressed provocatively.

Nevertheless, I think I would like to learn how to turn off and turn up the charm.
It'd be great to be able to flirt recklessly when I actually want to invite the romance, and to quell the flames mercilessly when I want to promote the most distant of platonic relationships.

My husband's friend, the professor, made some serious moves on me.
Just now

I'm still in shock
total shock
stunned
flaberghasted

holy fuck

What the fuck do I do?

She's not home yet.
Will be in a little while
I look at the clock.
I hope.

Holy Fuck.

Holy fuck.

Holy FUCK.

It started with a leg rub.
An (what I thought was) innocent pat on the leg, that suddenly went to the hand holding to the arm rubbing to the hair moving aside to the neck being exposed to the kiss on the neck to the arm roving over my breasts to me thinking 'huh.'
That's all.
Just, 'huh.'

I look at the clock.

Stunned.

And a little drunk.
And sleepy.
And I think him, too.

Then I see his hand float and I think 'I'm glad I'm wearing multiple layers.'
Stroking my hair.
A soft groan or moan from him.

I look at the clock.

And holy fuck what am I going to do?
One of my dearest friends is married to this guy and I had no idea, no fucking clue he thought of me this way.

"I know this is inappropriate."
"It is?" I stupidly ask.

I just sit there.
His hands wander.
"It's like a dream," he says

I look at the clock.
She is going to be home any second.
I hope.

"Your wife is a good friend of mine."

I know they've been separated a while, but stay together, keep appearances for the kids.
I know she has a serious boyfriend.
I know she cheats on the serious boyfriend with other men.
I've driven her to their homes.

This is what I think as I let him be drunk and stroke my hair and squeeze my hand and hum near my ear and I do not move.

WHAT THE FUCK

"So that's a 'no'?"
"I'm surprised."
"I thought you knew."
"I had no idea."
"I thought you knew when I rubbed your hair and touched your arm on your last visit."
"I'm stunned." He stares at me a second. "I need a little time," I lie.

He backs off.
Then comes closer.
His leg slides over the top of mine.
I think, "oh fuck, this is not a joke."

oh fuck
oh fuck
oh fuck
What the fuck do I do?
What do I do?

I wait for a moment, the moment he backs off for a breath or does something else new, then I say, "we have to stop."
He does, immediately.
I am beyond relief.

Holy fuck.

I know they're a little short (they're meant to be over-the-knee boots, but don't exactly cover my knees, and the behind the knee slit rests on my calf a couple inches below the back of my knee.)
I cannot quite decide if the straps look too low or funny... and if they're worth keeping in general.


When material covers the legs starting at the toes

Poll #1480911
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 2

What do these shoes say?

other:

This 10-story treehouse built around an 80-foot-tall white oak tree would make an awesome Haunted House


Especially with a few of these ressurected zombie chairs


and some fun ghost lamps


but I think the mischevious gnomes may prove too much


If you're looking for something a little quicker or sweeter, try a cupcake car

Just found my grandfather's old tux jacket.
It has tails!
I can be The Penguin.



Then again, that's not all that sexy... And I don't mean 'attract a mate' sexy, I intend the second meaning of interesting or neat or something like that. It's a loose word I use sometimes and I almost never mean exuding sexual desire.

The last thing I want is to be "a sexy ___" for Halloween.
Let us be free of the 9-year-old sexy vampires of the world.
I think the almost holiday can be tremendous fun, when it's chalked full of bobbing for apples and creative gross-out food and come-as-you-will festivities, rather than an odd pressure to appear as a stripper. It's strangely unseemly. And the adult-rated apparel is creepy, especially since it's nearly entirely focused on women.

I'm not nostalgic for the good ol' days, no. I'm not seeking something more wholesome, or commenting on society's lack of decency (which is not to say that I even think society has lost decency or ever had it).
My question here revolves around the point of sexy.
And when, if ever, it's appropriate to teach (rather than gain or learn as one matures and, dare I say, date?).

I'm not sure what the answer is, but do we want our everyday heroines to rely heavily on the superficial or on their sexuality?
Do we really want half the population to be tarts?
Do we want one of the more impactful insults to be 'tease'?

I need ideas.
Help!

Going to a friend's friend's bash. The group of friends are heavy into gaming and cos play and other fun things... so the possibilities are rather endless.
I wish I could pull together something fabulous
I'm half thinking of attempting Princess Peach, but, seeing as I'm dead broke and do not own a puffy pink dress or crazy blonde wig, it's far-fetched.

What could I pull off?
Please send Suggestions

I think it may be a bad idea to watch many hours of Criminal Minds before bedtime.
I woke myself trying to swat away a psychopath who could not stop trying to bite off people's faces.
The guy had Hannibal's charisma and tastes, but when he got close, devolved to have the Flukeman mouth melded with a giant rabid octopus beak constantly snapping and trying to get at me.

I've given up on the hand sewing of the gloves.
I, uh, didn't realize how I held it would make such a big difference, and, uh, got weird twisted fingers that really don't work on gloves. So, a little snip snip and arm-warmer style it will be. Perhaps next time, I'll sew one finger at a time to ensure the fourchette stays on a single plane and makes a nice smooth V between the fingers. I think I also ought to have made more precise measurements and cuts on the fourchettes so the fingers would be the right shape.
But, hey, I've got one good glove for when I have twisted arthritic hands.

Dear Journal,
I find myself full of words that have no real meaning for me.

I tutored today. Earned $20. It was the high of the day. Well, her complement anyway. She said that I can make things sound so good, polished. I can't recall precisely what she said, and the exact words aren't as important as the jump effect they had on my spirit.

Earlier I texted about the simple pleasure of sunshine to a friend.
I also commented to the Moroccan that I was listening to a joyous ruckus.
Dancing around, rockin' out, movin' to the groovin' that is S.C.I.E.N.C.E.
For a few hours I was happy.
Plain ol' happy.
Glee, even.

Then my mother came home from work, and once more I was reminded of the state of the filthy house, and that I am stupid for wanting to sew my own gloves, and that my brother and I are lazy somethings or other (she really did say "something or other").
She's going to undergo double knee replacement surgery.
Her back hurts her.
She comes home and says she gets more depressed.

Rain on my parade never held more truth.

As I was sewing, though, the cloud dissipated. I am not lazy. And while I lack in the job acquisition department, I think I'm an okay person.

I'm looking forward to costuming it up this weekend.
I think I may be anticipating too much regarding Mike and swing/ballroom dancing, but, really... that's okay. He cutely said he was excited. And I am, too. I'm glad we both are, but I wonder if it's for the same nefarious reasons...
I look forward to next weekend's crazy party. A true kegger. There's something freeing about those kinds of parties, at other people's places, of course. Wouldn't want to host one, but I'm all atingle to attend.

Yeah, now I'm being silly, unnecessarily verbose.

I'm holed up in the office. My mom's about to get a massage. From the old family friend who once lived in my room. He's a hugger.
I sometimes want to massage him.
It's a fleeting left-over feeling from high school days and mentions of mutual crushes.
I hide because I don't like to listen to her moan and groan. It creeps me in ways few things can.

I shall sew whilst watching Criminal Minds.
Love the Gube.
Plus, gimme Moore. k.thanks.

I miss sleep.

Moving along.
I need to eat healthily again. Save for a random shred of lettuce, I have not had much that was obviously living the past... well, let's be honest, couple months.
My shorts are not exactly difficult to button, but I can see the direction my waist-line is starting to head.
Steak still nauseates me. Yet, I am somehow okay with jerky. In fact, I quite like it, and on occasion even crave one of those 2 foot sheets one of the markets in IV sold.
So maybe I'll go veg again. Food was fun for those few months. An adventure. I think I may (it's too strong a word, but it'll do) need that challenge. Avoiding the Americana staple of meat and potatoes.

Still not flossing.
Nails a wreck.
Kick-ass tutoring job went away, but I'm still conversation partnering with one sweet little lady from Taiwan, and one mischief-lover fom Morrocco.
Might help start my friend Anahita's events business. She seems to want me. Don't know how I feel about being another personal assistant. I mean, I know I'm good at tending to others. Keeping their business in line, so to speak. But do I enjoy it? Does it interest me?
Does anything?

I sorta like organizing. I guess I like sorting out the good from the bad. Identifying the useful. Problem-solving. She and I went through her tornado'd living room last night, and she was put-off that I wasn't aghast or otherwise disgusted, and that I could indeed be peppy five hours into slogging the mess.

I dunno. What can I say? I appreciate categorizing. It's simple. Like with like. Alphabetical. Monthly. Color-coordinated. Length. Size. Shape. All things obvious.
Ease of finding once more.
I don't like my people like that, though.
Well, perhaps ease of finding is okay, but not segregated.

"Do you know what this is?"
"I do not."
"This is chaos."
(She's doing stretches in the bath, and, while not chaotic, does have the feel of intensely layered performance art."

"It's a skirt in the frort and shorts in the back. It's like a mullet for your butt."

I make little girls cry. Not on purpose, but with my insistence they do their homework.
I steal candy from babies. Not for fun, but because they cannot have it while swimming.
I am often heartless and say, "doesn't matter" to pleading. Not because I want to be without empathy, but because children need to learn they cannot have whatever is in eyesight.

I balk at candy and junk being used as treats and rewards. We have a strange relationship with food, and if we keep seeing the most unhealthy as the most coveted...
I feel like writing a letter to the teacher about the frequency of smoking-related content in homework. 5-year-olds should not be taught about pipes and other paraphernalia in math or writing class.

A show for children and preteens should not feature scantily clad anythings.
Beauty, style, or the superficial and temporary should not be valued above integrity, compassion, or intellignece.
What is going on when our kids learn how to strut their stuff before they have stuff to strut?

It's not just me is it?

I didn't have time to shower today.
KIDS ARE A HANDFUL!!!
Either that, or this kid knows how to handle me.
This week, I'm house-sitting, baby-sitting and pet sitting all in one, plus tutoring a few students, plus working day-of and decor/printed menu/etc prep for a dinner gig for a chef friend.
I'm pooped, but not only from the baby-sitting gig (it's only one night in).
This weekend saw me all over LA, price-quoting and shopping for the dinner, meeting up with friends, going to impromptu birthday parties, and getting NO SLEEP because the house-bound-still-mending-annoying-as-all-fuck cat wakes me up during the night every hour or so. Nothing like being walked upon by an outdoor cat with a cone collar who wants to go outside but cannot because he just got stitches out.
Did I mention I'm tired?
I took a nap today.
I never nap.
It was momentous.
And refreshing.
And I did not want to get out of bed to meet up with the student woefully lost in English 101.
I'm trying to stay awake until at least 10 (wow, how old am I?!) so I'm not wide awake at 5 or some other pre-dawn hour tomorrow.

I've been helping three siblings with math.
The youngest with intro, the middle with intermediate and the eldest with college/advanced Algebra.
It's been years since I taught math, and I wasn't sure I would remember much... but, wow, do I remember everything. Before I met with them yesterday, I wrote up some notecards for each of them on the different topics they'd had difficulty with, basically flushing out the concepts and building on the ideas and rules for future lessons. For a while there, I was on auto-pilot, before realizing I was writing things without being sure they were true, 3^-1 = 1/3 for instance

I had to stop myself and check a couple Algebra help websites, because I couldn't remember if that were real, or I was just making it up. We hadn't covered negative exponents in any of their classes yet, but, lo, it seems Algrbra is deeply rooted in this brain of mine.
I did the same thing when tutoring them, too, not really knowing what the phrase or term or title of the action meant, but instinctually knowing how to solve it.

All I can say is I was a nerd. I think back to the extra problems I'd make up for myself when I was taking Algebra as a Freshman... Yep, I would give myself extra work at the tender age of 13, and I remember it being quite fun. Figuring out the puzzle of factoring or applying the pythagoreum theorum to everyday things...
I still do it partially today.
And it's still fun.

Math is entertainment.

Grrr at Amazon's 15% commission, plus Closing Fees, plus per-transaction fees that eat up the entire shipping allotment.
I basically paid for the buyer to buy Back to the Future II
Seems like it's pointless to sell for anything less than $2. Which is a pity since books seems to lose their value like cars.
...How in the world are those sellers posting books for $0.01 earning anything?

It's great, all these children books I found in the garage. They're all from my brother's and my childhood. 1980s - 1995 or so.
Some of the paper has tanned like crazy. Other books look nearly new.

Know of any families that want a stack of kids books?
I'd sell a shoe box full of 'em at a time. A dozen or so books, appropriate for ages 10 and under. $35, including shipping.
It's a thought.